


Albatross

by nessbess



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Depression, Hallucinations, M/M, Psychosis, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nessbess/pseuds/nessbess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 2:37 in the morning, Mickey Milkovich died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Albatross

**Author's Note:**

> Set early season 4. 
> 
> Warnings for depression, suicidal thoughts, attempted (and failed) suicide, and psychosis. Please don't read if you're at risk of being triggered by any of these themes.

At 2:37 in the morning, Mickey Milkovich died.

He didn't stop breathing and his heart kept pumping blood through his veins. His dreams went on uninterrupted. But deep inside of him, the little boy that had clung to a fragile hope for so many years finally curled into a small ball and gave up.

Mickey didn't even notice at first, when he finally awakened the next morning. He felt no different. 

Rubbing at bleary eyes, he rolled out of bed and trudged to the bathroom, stubbing his toe on the doorframe. He took a piss and shook the last drops from the tip of his dick before splashing tap water onto his face, not bothering to flush. He peered into the grimy mirror, noting the beads of water that slid through the deep grooves alongside his cheeks and nested in the dark, days-old stubble on his chin before he met his own gaze in the mirror. 

Or he thought he did.

The face that stared back at him wasn't his own. Or rather, it was, and yet it was almost unrecognizable. His eyes had always been his least favourite part of himself. They had always been the windows to his soul, revealing all of the dark secrets he'd always wanted to hide.  _He_  had liked them, Mickey knew; He had found all of the words that Mickey had never said in their depths. But that hadn't stopped Him from leaving, from running away when Mickey was already past his breaking point, just when Mickey had needed Him the most - more than he'd ever needed anyone before in his pathetic excuse for an existence.

Now, his eyes were empty houses. They stared blankly back at him, almost black in the dull, flickering glow of the bathroom's lone, dusty bulb. Looking at his reflection, Mickey felt a stirring of unease. He snatched the grubby hand towel and swiped the water droplets from his face before leaving the bathroom, pushing the stranger in the mirror from his mind.

He made his way into the kitchen, ignoring the wife in his bed as her belly created a small hill in his blankets. 

"Morning, Assface," Mandy greeted tiredly, nudging eggs around a frying pan with a plastic spatula whose edge had melted and re-solidified into an uncooperative curl. Mickey merely grunted in response, afraid to look at her, afraid that she would notice the difference in his eyes.

As Mickey retrieved a cold beer from the fridge, Kenyatta came out of Mandy's bedroom, tugging a tight grey sweater over his broad chest. He pushed past them without a word or acknowledgement, the front door slamming shut behind him with a force that rattled the walls. Mickey arched an eyebrow and jerked a questioning thumb after him, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall behind Mandy's ear. Mandy merely shrugged, unconcerned, and began to shovel eggs onto two plates.

"The fuck you even seeing him for?" Mickey wondered aloud. He knew that half of Mandy's heart still belonged to Lip, while the other half would always belong to Ian. A bitter taste rose up in his mouth and he thumbed it off of his lip with a grimace. He knew that his heart, too, would always belong to the redhead. Even if he never admitted it to anyone, himself included.

Shoving a plate of eggs and a fork into Mickey's hands, Mandy leaned back against the counter across from him. She scooped up a forkful from her own plate as she replied, "He'd got a massive dick and he knows how to use it." She waggled her eyebrows.

Mickey snorted. "He  _is_ a massive dick," he corrected. "Seriously, Mands - the guy's a jerk-off."

"Says the man who married a  _professional_  jerk-off," Mandy deadpanned. 

Mickey choked out a laugh that he hoped sounded genuine. He turned his back to Mandy in the hope that she wouldn't see the blood drain from his face. It all came back to Svetlana and that  _thing_  inside of her. 

"Yeah, yeah." He knuckled at the corners of his eyes in an effort to play off the rising burn of frustrated tears as a simple act of rubbing away morning crusts. It always came back to Svetlana.  _He_ 'd still be here, if not for her. He swiped at his nose before draining his beer in one long gulp. He grabbed a second. These days, it was always the hardest when he first woke up, before he achieved the blissful numbness of booze or whatever else he could get his hands on. 

"He'll be okay, you know?" Mandy tried, her voice oddly gentle in that tentative way she seemed to have adopted recently. "He'll come back soon, and then you'll be able to grovel and beg him to take you back all you want."

Mickey wiped his nose with his wrist again and popped off the beer cap with the meaty heel of his hand. "I dunno what the fuck you're talking about," he scowled, shooting a warning glare over his shoulder. He retreated to his bedroom, knowing that while Mandy would give him up as a lost cause today, she'd be back with the nagging and trying to be a supportive sister or whatever-the-fuck she called being a nosy bitch by tomorrow. For now, though, he couldn't deal with it. He was just so tired all of the time and allusions to Ian only served to further exhaust him. 

The wife was seated before the window, dabbing on the finishing touches to her makeup when Mickey entered the room, slamming the door behind him. She glanced at him in the mirror, unimpressed, but said not a word as he agitatedly paced.

"How I look?" she pursed her lips as she finally turned to face him.

Mickey scoffed. "What fuckin' difference does it make? No one's going to be looking at your face when you're jerking him off with your fat fucking nipples staring at him."

"You not like fat nipples," she said blandly before repeating, "How I look?"

"Like someone who's paid to fuck dudes," he snapped. "Now get to work before I have to dock your pay for being late."

Giving him one last, impervious glare, Svetlana tugged on her pumps and swept from the room, the door slamming closed behind her.

Once sure that she was truly gone, Mickey sagged onto the bed, his face buried in his tattooed hands. "Fuck," he uttered into the silence of the empty room.

Four months.

It had been four months since he'd been forced to fuck her. Four months since he'd discovered she was pregnant. Four months since he'd married her.

Four months since  _He_ 'd left.

Four months out of four years.

Minimum.

"Fuck," he said again, punching his pillow. A hot desperate knot clenched within his gut. 

He didn't know how to - 

How was he supposed to -

" _Fuck_ ," the word punched out of him in the place of the scream he had felt building for four months.

He'd never liked himself - not since he'd discovered that he was the very thing his father hated the most - but he'd never truly hated himself before. He'd had his moments, in the devastated look on His face whenever Mickey had shoved Him away, but he'd never before felt this all-encompassing loathing. It was his own fault, he knew. He'd tried - he'd tried  _so hard_  - but it hadn't been enough. He hadn't been enough to make Him stay. And now, with his world crumbling to rubble around his ears, how was he supposed to get through the next three years and eight months - fucking  _minimum_  - without Him?

Mickey's throat closed up and he rubbed furiously at his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to push the tears back inside. A Milkovich was never so weak as to cry. And yet...  _He_  had cried. And with everything that He was, He had never been weak.

"I've never seen you cry before," a heart-stoppingly familiar voice said from behind him.

Mickey whipped around so quickly that a sharp pain sprang up in his neck. He stared in disbelief at the figure lounging on his bed in army fatigues, hands pillowed behind his fiery red hair.

"G-gallagher?" he croaked, ninety-seven percent sure that he was dreaming. But that three percent... Oh, that blessed three percent...

Ian sat up, a bright, carefree grin unfurling across his face. Mickey felt something in his chest loosen and break. It had been so long since he'd seen that smile... "Yeah, Mick," he laughed, loud and merry. "It's only been four months. Surely you haven't forgotten me so soon?"

Spitting like an angry cat, Mickey lurched to his feet. "You goddamned asshole," he snarled. "You leave - just walk out of my life like it's fucking nothing - and then come back here, all stupid fucking smiles, casual as you please? I'd just married my fucking  _rapist_ , Gallagher. You were there, you knew what she did to me, you fucking  _knew_ that I didn't want to..." he huffed a humourless laugh. "For the first time in my fucking life, I needed something. Fuck, I needed  _you_. And you left." He shook his head, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. It was suddenly impossible to look at Ian.

"The fuck was I supposed to do?" Ian snapped back. "I was in a bad place, too. I needed you, too. But every single fucking time I tried to reach out, you shoved me away."

"And when I tried to make you stay? You didn't even give me a chance to find the words. How the fuck was I supposed to make you stay when there was nothing left of me for you to stay for?" He shoved at Ian's chest, overbalancing and toppling onto the bed when his hands fell right through the younger man's solid-looking body. Horrorstruck, they stared at each other with wide eyes and gaping mouths.

"You're not even here," Mickey breathed, feeling the panic swell within his own chest. Despair gripped him around the throat, squeezing with an iron fist. "You're not even real."

"Mickey..." Ian's eyes were large and tearful as he stretched out a hand, reaching for Mickey. His fingers brushed Mickey's wrist, but Mickey couldn't feel it.

"You're not even real," he gasped with whatever air the hand around his throat would allow. He knew what this had to mean, Ian showing up in his army fatigues without even being solidly there. His world froze on its axis. "No," he breathed, squeezing his burning eyes shut. "You're not even real," he said numbly, laughing a little. His head pounded with the pressure of tears shed and unshed alike. The thought of a world without the redheaded little shit... Ian couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. It made no sense. "You're not even... No! I don't want to... It can't..." He couldn't hold back the suffocating sobs that strangled in his throat. His world was on fire. "Get out," he pleaded. "GET OUT!"

When he next opened his eyes, he was alone.

~*~

That afternoon, Mickey sat knocking back shots of Snakebite in the Alibi, fully prepared to believe that the morning's events were merely a hallucination brought on by the previous night's residual high. Never mind that he'd only had one joint. Ian hadn't been in his bedroom. Ian was safe - or as safe as he could be, that was - with the army, hundreds of miles away.

The thought wasn't as comforting as he'd hoped.

"Hey, you heard from Gallagher lately?" he asked Kev when the other man drew near to provide him with another shot.

The bartender paused, raising his eyebrows. "Lip?"

"Nah," Mickey laughed nervously, thumbing at his lip. "No, the other one. The redhead."

"Ian?" Kevin frowned, shrugging his bewildered indifference. "He took off. Haven't heard from him in months." He gave Mickey a suspicious glare. "Why, he owe you money or something?"

Mickey was saved from answering when Frank Gallagher rapped his knuckles on the bar, demanding a boilermaker and spouting some shit that Mickey automatically tuned out.

Kevin and Veronica were practically family to the Gallaghers; everyone in the neighbourhood knew that. The fact that Kevin hadn't heard from Ian meant that the other Gallaghers probably hadn't, either. Mickey spun the shot glass thoughtfully before downing the drink with a grimace and gesturing for another.

"You might want to slow down on those," Kev cautioned, but Mickey waved aside his concerns. He was a Milkovich, and getting shitfaced was a badge of honour.

He rolled the empty glass between his palms. Family had always been the most important thing to Ian. Mickey couldn't understand why Ian wouldn't keep in contact, even if he didn't tell them where he was or why. Surely he had to know that they were worried. Even if he didn't think that Mickey gave two shits, surely he had to know that his family did. 

Unless something had happened. Maybe he was too badly injured to get in touch. Maybe - his thoughts flickered to earlier that day - maybe he was dead. Mickey's stomach gave a lurch at the thought and he scraped a fist through his hair. No. No, it was the weed. Ian was safe. He was fine. He just needed some more time and then he'd be back before Mickey knew it.

Tossing some bills onto the bar, Mickey gave Kev a parting nod as he stumbled out into the night. It had gotten dark while he was inside and Mickey realized that he had no idea what time it was or how many shots he had downed. The world lurched around him, the ground beneath his feet bucking like the deck of a ship in a storm. His knees couldn't quite figure out how to compensate for the wild rolling. 

"You don't look so good," Ian said casually, strolling beside him with his hands deep in his camouflaged pockets.

"Fuck off," Mickey scowled. He valiantly continued down the street, his house in view at the end of the block.

"No, seriously," Ian tried again. His eyes were dark with concern and Mickey found it difficult to meet his gaze. "You haven't drank this much since that time you kicked the shit out of me."

"I said 'fuck off'," Mickey snarled. His stomach churned miserably at the memory. He stumbled, bracing himself against some stranger's fence as he blinked back spots and waited for the world to stabilize. 

Ian shrugged, his hands raised in surrender before they slipped back into his pockets, and lapsed into silence. 

"Why are you here?" Mickey asked eventually, once they'd resumed walking. "You're supposed to be with the fuckin' army."

The redhead stalled for a moment, body swaying bashfully as his eyes turned skywards. "Yeah, well," he turned a hopeful grin on Mickey. "I kinda missed you."

Mickey glanced at his feet, feeling suddenly shy as a hot flush swept over his already drink-pinked face. A small part of his brain knew that this made no sense, that Ian wasn't really there. A larger part told that part to shut the fuck up. "Fuck off," he repeated, unable to keep the joyous laugh out of his voice.

Ian's bright grin lit up the darkness as Mickey tripped up the porch stairs and fumbled with the doorknob before finally succeeding in pushing the door open. He left it open as he entered the house, knowing that Ian would take it as an invitation to follow. 

~*~

Mickey woke abruptly the next morning to the sound of Mandy's rage. 

"The fuck, Mickey?" she shouted as Mickey woke with a jolt and tumbled out of bed, legs twisted in his sleeping bag. On the bed, Svetlana mumbled something in Russian and rolled over before resuming her snoring. 

"What?" Mickey groaned, clutching at his temples in an effort to still the gong that rang through his brain.

Mandy advanced on him, kicking him roughly in the shins. "What kind of asshole leaves the front door wide open all fucking night?" 

Mickey curled into a ball, cradling his head and wishing she would stop shouting. "Didn't."

"Oh yeah? Well you were the last one to come in last night!"

Suddenly wide away, Mickey felt his stomach plunge. Ian wouldn't have left the door wide open. He'd have dead bolted it without a second thought.

Ian hadn't been there last night. Just as he hadn't been there the previous morning.

"Fuck off. No one stole anything, did they?" he grunted, trying to hide that his world had once again flipped on its axis.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Mickey," Mandy scowled, giving him a sharp kick to the ass. "You're lucking we weren't all murdered in our beds. Stop moping over your fucking boyfriend, quit fucking drinking all the time, and get your shit together before you kill us all."

"I dunno what the fuck you're talking about," he said stubbornly as he dragged himself into a sitting position. 

Mandy rolled her eyes. "Right. Just do your job for once and take it easy with the booze." Ignoring Mickey's parting "Aye, fuck you!", she stormed from the room and slammed the door behind her.

Svetlana pulled the blankets off of her head and shot Mickey an accusing glare as he stood. "The fuck you lookin' at?" he fumed as he dumped his sleeping bag back onto the bed and marched into the bathroom. "Over-dramatic bitches."

Mickey locked the door behind himself with a click and turned on the taps. He braced himself on the sink, glaring into the mirror and trying to ignore the agony brewing beneath his sternum. The face staring back at him was paler than he remembered, his eyes dark and bruised and sunken deep into his skin. Mickey laughed hollowly, choking on the tightness of his throat. There was a whirlpool swirling in his breast, sucking him under the surface, drowning him. He clawed at his throat, fingernails scrabbling at an invisible rope. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't - he couldn't - 

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his throat and he doubled over, clutching at the sink for support. Once the laughter began, he couldn't stop. It was as though a pack of wild monsters had been unleashed, Zeus's titan enemies, once trapped in his lungs but now freed, digging claw holds into the lining of his throat before launching themselves out of his mouth. One after another and another and another. He laughed and laughed and laughed as his body went lax and sagged. His feet slipped on the cold tile and he went down with a hard thud, his head slamming against the toilet bowl. Instead of a curse of pain, he only laughed all the harder. He laughed and laughed and laughed until he screamed, kicking out in an attempt to dislodge the thing hovering over him, choking out his air, his life, his soul. His foot went clean through the wall, jagged edges tearing open his ankle.

With the fresh pain, the laughter finally ended. Mickey lay sprawled on his back, gasping for breaths as his eyes filled with the dampness spilling from the corners of his eyes. A high, keening sound came from deep within his gut and with it, more tears. 

Ian couldn't be gone. He just couldn't. Mickey was only imagining it - Ian hadn't been there, flesh, ghost, or otherwise. Ian couldn't be - he wasn't -

Mickey heaved himself over the toilet bowl, just in time as his stomach expelled its contents. He lay there weakly, resting his sweaty cheek against the cool surface, until he was able to get his feet under himself and rise.

He glared at his reflection - how it dared to look so miserable and weak - as he splashed water over his face to hide the sweat and tears and rinsed out his mouth. Patting his face dry with the bottom of his shirt, Mickey gave the mirror one last threatening growl before he left the bathroom.

Svetlana was perched on the edge of the bed when Mickey returned, eyeing him warily as her hands cradled her swollen stomach. 

"The fuck are you lookin' at?" he sneered, every synapse in his body set to 'flight', before he limped from the room.

Mickey glanced down at his ankle, surveying the damage before giving it up as insignificant. As far as his history of wounds went, this one didn't come close to the worst he'd ever received. His ankle was littered with small cuts, some of which leaked sluggish streams of blood to leave footprints in his wake. It wasn't serious enough to warrant stitches and band-aids were for pussies. He walked on.

When Mickey came onto the rooftop, he sighed to see the redhead already sitting against the wall, unable to feign surprise.

"Jesus fuck," he groaned, scratching at an eyebrow. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Ian shrugged. "I already told you: I missed you," he said easily before grinning. Mickey's chest ached at the sight of his smile. "Besides, I was here first." He got to his feet, strolling lazily towards Mickey. "Technically, you're the one who was following me."

"You're not even fucking here!" Mickey whirled on Ian. He demonstratively swung a fist at the other man's face, connecting only with empty air. "What do you want from me?"

"I just want to be with you," Ian tried, reaching out to Mickey. His givers ghosted along Mickey's upper arm, inches between them and his flesh. "Is that so bad?"

Mickey closed his eyes at the fresh stab of pain in his chest. "What's the fucking point?" he uttered. He moved a step away from Ian, trying to give their inability to connect the illusion of being due to physical distance alone. "We can't bang. Can't even fucking touch. What else do you want from me?"

"This was never just about sex, Mick," his gaze was soft and tender and everything that Mickey missed the most. He basked in it, telling the hole in his heart to shut the fuck up, that this could be real if he wanted it to be. "You know that. No matter how much you tried to pretend, you knew that this was never just sex. I just want to be with you. With  _you_." 

"Yeah, well," Mickey scoffed brokenly, feeling as though he were floating in the middle of the Atlantic with no boat in sight. "I think you're probably dead, so there's really only one way for me to really be with you."

Ian froze, his eyes wide and fearful. "Mickey, you don't mean...?" he began. "No, I don't want that!" Fear melted into anger. "I swear to fucking god, Mickey, if you even think about -"

"Yeah, yeah, alright," Mickey brushed his words aside. "Jesus. Don't get your fucking panties in a bunch."

"I just want to spend some time with you," Ian said again, his voice gentler. His doe eyes surrounded Mickey in their warmth. "Can't that be enough?"

Mickey almost doubled over from the blow his words caused. "Yeah, Gallagher," he lied, knowing that he would give anything for this man, even if it was too much, even if it wasn't close to being enough. "Yeah, it's enough."

The beautiful smile that stretched across Ian's face made everything worth it as Mickey sat down next to him. He flopped onto his back, staring up at the clouds and pretending that his mind wasn't full of shooting stars and that his heart wasn't full of grief. 

Over the next few days, Ian maintained a constant presence. Wherever Mickey looked, wherever he went, Ian was there. Whenever he caught Mickey looking, he was always quick to smile, but Mickey often caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye, looking lost and forlorn. Mickey wasn't a fool. He knew that Ian wasn't really there. But he  _wanted_ him to be, so desperately, that sometimes it was too easy to simply believe. It was too easy to pretend that Ian was alive and well and here. It was too easy to believe that he was happy.

Yet Mickey knew that Ian could never truly be happy. Not when he was dead and Mickey was still here.

Mickey thought about it almost constantly - pulling the trigger, taking the pills, using the knife - finally,  _finally_ , being with Ian with no one to tear them apart. He wanted it more than anything, for the pain to end and the life with Ian to begin. It consumed his thoughts. Sometimes, he thought that Ian might know; he could see it in the lines of his frown. 

"You hungry?" Ian was saying while Mickey once again wondered about ending it all and finally being with him - really being with him. No Terry, no wife, none of this isolation... "I mean, you haven't eaten in awhile and there's this really great pancake place down on South Western - makes a mean french toast, you know the one - and I just thought we might -"

"Nah," Mickey interrupted. "I'm not hungry." He didn't have the energy to go cruising all around the South Side just for some pancakes. "No, I think I'll just..." He allowed the sentence to drift into the ethers as he meandered into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Ian followed, leaning against the sink and eyeing him appreciatively as Mickey shucked his clothing and stepped into the lukewarm water. 

"Wish I could touch you," he said, punctuated with a breathy moan. "My Mickey."

His words only solidified Mickey's resolve. He wanted Ian to touch him, too. Needed it, so desperately. "I know," Mickey said softly as he picked up his razor and dismantled it. "I know."

"What are you doing?" Ian frowned, his voice suddenly thick with nerves from where he lounged against the sink, muscled arms folded across his chest.

Mickey admired the blade for a moment, how the dim light reflected like gold across its edge. He dug the razor into the thin skin on the inside of his wrist, slicing across the veins in one smooth motion.

"No, stop," Ian protested desperately, reaching for him but unable to make contact. "Goddamnit, Mickey..."

Almost immediately, drops of red welled up in the blade's wake, painting a stripe of red across the feathered maze of blue veins on his pale skin. Red, white and blue. How fucking patriotic; death under the flag. Just like Ian.

"Mickey!"

The blood looked fucking stupid in the half-hearted drizzle of the low-pressure shower, like something Mandy would twist into her braids when she was younger. It was all bright ruby ribbons, insubstantial-looking, melting away almost as soon as it rose in the weak streams of water. Mickey knew he'd done it wrong - hadn't cut deep enough to open the veins. Fucking figured that he couldn't even get his own death right. He hadn't, after all, been able to accomplish anything else in his worthless excuse for a life. Why should this be the exception?

The water suddenly seemed to carry the wright of the world as it beat down on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees. Mickey began to cry, his wrists cradled in his lap, great, heaving sobs that continued long after the water turned to ice around him and his lips turned purple.

"Mick..." Ian tried again, reaching for him, his voice unbearably gentle. 

"Get out," Mickey said quietly.

"Mickey, please -"

"Why do you give a fuck, you're not even here!" he lurched to his feet and whirled on his delusion, shouting. "Just get out. Get out get out GET OUT!"

Ian gave him one last, hurt look and vanished. He always vanished. Mickey numbly shut off the water and wrapped a towel around himself. Pressing a corner of the towel to his stinging wrist, he sank to the floor and cried, mourning Ian, mourning himself.

Ian didn't come back the next day.

Or the next.

As the days slipped away, so went Mickey's energy. Ian had left him. Again. He was so fucking... He hated that he was so adept at pushing Ian away - that it was the one skill he had truly mastered in his life. He'd even succeeded in chasing off his fucking ghost.

He fisted his hand into the sheets. It was no wonder, really. He'd spent his entire life in fear of his father, of anyone finding out about him, of the very idea of himself. He was the very thing he'd been brought up to hate, and he couldn't even be it well. He was a fucking faggot; a fucking pussy. And he hadn't even learned how to be a good faggot, singing Kumbaya and holding hands and shit. Maybe, if he'd been able to find the words, maybe Ian wouldn't have ever left. 

Mandy knocked on the doorframe, interrupting his thoughts. "I made banana pancakes," she said softly, as though afraid to disturb him. If Mickey were able to move, he would have burrowed further into the blankets. "You want any?"

Mickey remained silent, hoping that she would receive the message and leave. She knocked again. "Mickey?"

"No," he said tonelessly. 

Mandy entered the room, closing the door behind her with a gentle click before she perched on the edge of his bed. Mickey could almost hear her chewing at her lips, see the thoughts buzzing around her mind. "Is this about Ian?" she asked hesitantly. Mickey's sexuality and Ian were two things that they'd never discussed. 

Hopelessness swelled within Mickey and he pressed his eyes shut. If he squashed his lids together with enough force, maybe he would black out. Maybe he'd never have to open them again. Maybe he would be able to forget that of course it was Ian. Everything always came down to Ian.

Mandy's hand rested gently on Mickey's head, startling him from his thoughts. "He'll be okay, Mickey," she said as she tangled her fingers in his hair. "He'll be just fine and he'll come back and he'll still love you." She tugged at his ear in a futile effort to coax a reaction from him. "Because you know he does, right? Love you, I mean. He admitted as much at your wedding."

Mickey dug his face further into the pillow, feeling hot tears prick at his eyes - tears he had no energy to shed. He wished she would just stop talking. The pressure behind his eyes swelled.

"'s not coming back," Mickey mumbled. He knew that Mandy heard him.

"Don't be stupid," she scoffed. She resumed her petting of his hair. Mickey wished she wouldn't. He missed the punches and the pinches - missed not feeling so damned  _breakable_. "Of course he will. He'll hate you for awhile, of course, and he'll probably make you fight for it ass over dick, but he'll come 'round. You'll see."

That time, the tears would not be stopped. Mickey knew the truth, even if no one else did. Ian was never coming back.

~*~

"Jesus, Mickey." The familiar voice was a defibrillator, jolting Mickey from his catatonic haze. "You reek. When did you last shower?"

"Don't you fucking start with me," Mickey growled. He lurched to his feet and seized the gun from beneath his pillow. A hot rage boiled within the pit of his stomach, amplified by his lingering feelings of desolation. "You think you can just pop in and out of my life whenever it fucking suits you?"

Ian scratched at the back of his head, smiling nervously. "Look," he attempted, "I know I shouldn't have just left like that - believe me, I fucking know - but I didn't see any other options."

Mickey knew that he shouldn't want to see Ian, that it would only make it hurt more until the real Ian came back, but he knew that he was already addicted. He was addicted to the bright red hair, the hopeful smile, the cling of camouflage to long thighs. A few days without him had been agony, and yet he knew that there were many more of those to come.

"You're not real," he whispered, more to himself than to his delusion. And it was true. Since Ian had begun to show up, Mickey had felt less real, less of himself, than he had ever felt before.

"What?" Ian took a half step closer.

"You're not real," Mickey said again, louder. He could feel the burn of desperation once again scraping at his throat and pounding between his eyes. "It's fine - I know now. You can stop pretending or whatever."

Ian paused, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing as he nervously swallowed. "It's me," he said hesitantly, approaching as one would a wild animal. "It's Ian."

Mickey choked out a laugh. He wanted to believe him - he wanted desperately to believe him. But he couldn't. "You're not," he said with a wide grin. It had always been easier to laugh at heartache than to cry. "I think you should go."

Ian's face had gotten even paler - his freckles stood out in sharp relief. It was strange, Mickey thought, how Ian looked so much more like a ghost in his distress. The truth will out, he supposed. "Mickey..."

Mickey's vision was tunneling. He could feel the crash drawing closer, a hungry lion waiting for any sign of weakness to lunge. He was open. Vulnerable. "I said fuck off," he snarled, backed into his corner.

"Mickey, it's me..." the beautiful delusion tried again. "You have to believe me."

Mickey heaved a wracking sob, his hands pressed tightly to his ears. But how did you block out a voice that spoke from your own mind? "I said  _get out_!" he screamed, firing the gun in an effort to make a noise loud enough to drown out the voice, his desperate pleadings.

Ian looked down at his stomach, surprise written across his face as a red strawberry began to swallow his olive t-shirt. He touched a hand to it and his fingertips came away red and sticky. "Mick," he breathed, tears filling his eyes as he swayed on his feet. He reached out a hand to Mickey, but Mickey couldn't take it. He hadn't been able to touch Ian for months.

"Mickey, please," Ian choked on a bubble of blood that slipped from the corner of his mouth, popping on his lower lip. His eyes were wide and glassy with terror.

"You're not here," Mickey whimpered, rocking back and forth on his heels. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, hands once more at his ears. "You're not here, you're not here, get out get out  _get out_!"

"Mickey, what the fuck?" Mandy came at a run when she heard the gunshot. When she saw Ian on the floor, clutching at his stomach, her world dropped from beneath her feet. "Ian? No! No, Ian, you're okay," she fell to her knees at Ian's side, covering his wound with her hands. "You're okay."

Mickey paused in confusion. Mandy had never reacted to his hauntings before. Only he had ever been able to see Ian. No one had been able to touch Ian before, either. It made no sense.

"Mickey," Mandy screamed, "call a fucking ambulance!"

But that made no sense, either. How would an ambulance help a ghost?

He was just so, so tired.

"Mickey," Ian pleaded again, his fingernails scrabbling against the carpet as he reached towards Mickey. There was blood underneath his nails. He left behind trails of long, red scratches. "Please."

He was just so tired. He needed to lay down, to just close his eyes for a minute. Perhaps, when he next opened them, everything would be back to normal.

~*~

Mandy knocked on Mickey's doorframe, leaning her head against the wood. Her hands and blouse were stained red; a smear of it streaked across her cheek. "The cops are outside," she informed him, voice strained and weary. Her eyes were dark and raccoon-like with smudged mascara. "They're going to take you in a minute. Psych evaluation or some shit."

Mickey said nothing; he could find no words around the buzzing emptiness in his mind. They were finally here. They finally knew. He'd been waiting for so long...

"Ian's dead, Mickey," she said tentatively, bracing for a backlash. "You know that, right?"

"I know," Mickey confirmed hollowly. "I'm the reason he's dead." Stunned, Mandy recoiled. She hadn't realized that Mickey knew... That he'd been aware... "If I hadn't gotten hitched, he'd have never left. It's my fault he joined the army; my fault he got his ass shot off over there, and now they know it. Fuck," he laughed drily, " _he_  knows it. Fucker's been haunting me for weeks."

"Weeks?" A frustrated sob strangled in Mandy's throat. "Mickey... Ian died half an hour ago."

Mickey looked down at the gun still clutched in his violently shaking hands. He began to laugh. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry.


End file.
